


Orientation

by Inkblot9



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bitterness, College, Developing Friendships, First Meetings, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internal Conflict, Kindred Spirits, Roommates, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 11:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11462226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblot9/pseuds/Inkblot9
Summary: Budding scholar Stanford Pines has finally made it to the start of his college career. But in the wake of bitterness and mistakes, it feels quite a bit less than a dream come true. Meeting his new roommate may offer him an alternate perspective on the situation—for better or for worse.





	Orientation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bananaquit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananaquit/gifts).



> Man, oh man, it's been a while since I hit that "Post New" button. I haven't stopped thinking about Gravity Falls for a day, but life and what-have-you kinda got in the way of anything more than that (again). Talking headcanons on Tumblr and digging up some old drafts is starting to get me back in the fic-writin' mindset. It's not perfect, but it's a step. I do truly hope to be writing more soon. Excuse my oddly-specific headcanons—clearly, I think about this stuff a bit _too_ much.

Some fragile piece of the budding scholar still wanted to be happy today. College had been a far-off dream for so long, and now here he was, standing among the throes of students, beginning the next chapter of his education and his independent life. Though the circumstances were far from ideal, still he had made it this far.

But it was too late for such sentiments. Stanford Pines had already convinced himself weeks prior that he was going to utterly hate, utterly despise Backupsmore University and everyone and everything in it. He was angry at the world—at his brother, at his father, at the West Coast Tech representatives, at middle-of-nowhere suburbia, and at Fate itself. His one chance to prove himself, to get out of Jersey and and see the world, to explore and learn and  _succeed_ —and it had all devolved completely into a bastardized mockery of all his plans and goals.

That anger was transforming itself into a bitter, stubborn determination. If going through college at all meant he would have to be stuck in this hellhole for four-plus years, so be it. He would work harder, strive further, and reach higher than anyone else. He wouldn’t stop for so much as a breath until he had trampled this sorry school into the dust and left it behind in the wake of his trail of glory.

These thoughts were bouncing around in Ford’s head like a straight shot on his father’s “antique” billiard table as he reached the doorway of his assigned dorm room. He remembered then that he would have to be splitting said room with another person. Not that he, as a twin born to cheap and savvy parents, was unaccustomed to sharing space… He was, however, unaccustomed to sharing what was bound to be such a _cramped_ and _smelly_ and _distasteful_ space with somebody whom he had _not_ known all his life. His new roommate was sure to be just as idiotic and unpleasant as the number of other freshman he had briefly encountered earlier in the day. The voice in his mind shouting _I don’t belong here, I’m better than this_ was crescendoing rapidly.

Even so, lingering in the cockroach-infested hallway (so much for “mostly-bug-free”) wasn’t going to solve anything. He inhaled deeply and twisted the doorknob open.

The room was indeed far too small for comfort. There was barely enough space for two beds (probably infested) and a desk (probably broken); where would he store all his books? What’s more, the room smelled heavily of marijuana smoke and canned beans, and it sounded like—like—

He turned his head about fifty degrees to the right and there in the corner of the room, leaning back precariously in a stained roller chair, was his roommate, strumming away obliviously on a _banjo_ , of all things.

He had his back turned to the newcomer; he clearly hadn’t heard him enter over whatever he was fingering out on his cockamamie instrument. He was clad in ragged, baggy clothes and his unkempt dirty-blond hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, secured loosely with a rubber band.

Who was this guy supposed to be? Some kind of hippie hillbilly hobo? Clearly, he had arrived some time earlier; if the odor and the assortment of strange knickknacks and tools littering the minimal shelvage were any indication, he had already made himself at home.

Ford sighed heavily, internally steaming at the prospect of being stuck with this whack-job stranger for months on end. If the lack of personal space didn’t suffocate him, the stench in the air certainly would.

The banjo-playing abruptly ceased. Ford’s roommate whipped his head around to face him, apparently startled by the sound of displeasure he had emitted. Ford found himself automatically noting the details of his face. A delicate pair of reading glasses balanced on his long nose. Behind the spectacles he had soft, pale blue eyes, which honestly might have been rather stunning had they not been rimmed with bleary red…

“So, yer the roomie, eh?”

His voice, a modulated Southern drawl, redirected Ford’s attention. He sounded tense, exhausted, and worn down to just about his last nerve. Maybe they did have a thing or two in common after all, despite all appearances.

“Ah…yes, I believe I am,” Ford stammered in response to the other man’s query. He decided that the stranger deserved basic civility, if nothing else.

His new acquaintance nodded slowly, eyes half-shut. His slender fingers were still hovering over their previous positions on his banjo, just barely dusting the strings. Then his brow furrowed downward and he leaned his head further in the newcomer’s direction.

“Ah, hey now,” he murmured quizzically, “am I still high as all heaven, or d’you got six fingers?”

Immediately Ford stiffened, his ( _freakish_ ) hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. Of _course_ that was the first thing this guy noticed. Of _course_ that was the defining feature of himself, of this conversation, of any and all relations he could ever think of having with this man, or with anyone at all. Even at this kind of school in this kind of situation with this kind of person, the one thing that stood out as abnormal and freakish and wrong…was _him_!

All he could manage in reply was a mess of unintelligent-sounding mumbles and stutters. Carrying on conversation with other people was hard enough when they were in some way related to him, or if they had some kind of commonality other than general irritability. All that was present between himself and the banjo player was his own strangeness and foolish humiliation. At this point, reasonable social interaction was nigh impossible.

It could have been an hour or merely a moment before the stranger delicately set aside his instrument and released an oddly melodic chuckle. “Aw, don’t ya worry none,” he said, before kicking off his well-worn loafers to reveal his bare feet beneath.

Ford gawked in bewilderment for a moment, but when the other man began to wiggle his digits in the air, the reason for his fascination and amusement became clear.

Each of his feet bore only four muddied, splintered toes.

It was incredible! In all his years of self-consciousness, never before had the “six-fingered freak” so much as _heard_ of somebody with a deformity even remotely similar to his own.

After a minute or two Ford realized he had been staring, and to add to his lack of standard interpersonal manners, he had yet to introduce himself.

He straightened his posture and cleared his throat. “S-Stanford Pines,” he announced, extending his ( _anomalous_ ) hand forward. 

There was a pause. Then the stranger reared his head back and spat forcefully into his palm before slapping it against Ford’s.

“Just call me F,” he said with a smack of his lips as they shook.

“‘F’?” Ford repeated, mystified. He made an attempt to be discreet as he wiped his wet hand on his trousers. “W-what’s the ‘F’ stand for?” 

“‘ _F’_ stands for ‘fuck out my business’, got it?”

Ford flinched at the brashness in the reply, then slowly nodded. 

He still wasn’t quite sure what to think of his new companion, of this man called “F”. He was certainly strange, but whether he was in fact strange in a negative way was what the young scientist now found himself questioning. One way or another, for better or for worse, he would be getting to know this man better than he had most other human beings over the course of the next year. Hopefully he would be able to develop a reasonable conclusion on his true nature by then.

Over the remainder of the afternoon, Stanford fell into a steady working rhythm, unpacking his things as F’s banjo trilled away in the background of his consciousness. The bugs and the smells and the anger temporarily melted into a lowly haze that became easier and easier to ignore as the day wound to a close.

He was still rather unenthused about his situation on the whole, but a glimmer of optimism was beginning to flicker just beyond the ugly fog. It was a comforting sensation in the midst of such unfamiliarity and unpleasantness. Perhaps, it told him, he would make something good out of this whole mess. This space was his to grow in, and like the ingenious mind he was, he would find a way through it all—however infuriating the process might be. He would show them all, from Jersey to West Coast Tech, just what he was made of. 

He caught the sound of F softly humming as he sifted through his own drawers. 

 _Yes,_ Ford thought, _perhaps I will find some sort of success here after all._

**Author's Note:**

> Fidds is drawn with five fingers but four toes, while (I believe) all the others' digits match, so sometimes I like to entertain the idea that that's in fact what he's got.


End file.
